The Green Eyed Monster
by mymanisfictional
Summary: America gets jealous of England's history with France. America's eyes may be blue, but he can be just as jealous as his British lover. And we all know jealousy can make people do stupid things...
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, everyone~ This is the USUK fic I mentioned in my A/N in my other fic, Best Friends Don't Hit on Each Other's Boyfriends. I know I said it'd be on my joint account, but all will be explained at the bottom. :3**

**This first chapter is a tad short, but don't worry, there's more to come!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

"England," America whined. His huge body was sprawled across the couch, his head dangling over the side.

"What do you want?" England responded from his seat in the comfy armchair to the left of the couch. Unlike America, his posture was straight and proper - stark contrast to the other blonde nation, who was now laying upside down, Nantucket brushing the floor.

"I'm bored!" America told him as the blood rushed to his head.

"Well what do you expect me to do about it? Watch tv, or better yet, pick up a book for once," the Brit told him, holding up the novel he himself was reading for emphasis.

America groaned. "No, all that stuff is _boring_. Ugh, I'll find something else to do. Since you're no help, Artie!"

"Yes, yes, run along now," England murmured distractedly, having already returned to his book. As an afterthought he added, "And don't call me Artie."

Despite his dislike of England's obvious way of brushing him off, America did what he said and went upstairs in search of something to cure his boredom.

He ended up walking in and out of all the rooms before finally finding himself in the guest bedroom. While normally this room would be cold and almost eerie, it still held a spark of life in it from when France had visited last week. Actually, one could argue that it made the room seem even creepier.

Out of nothing other than sheer boredom, America walked over to the closet and opened it, curious to see what was in it. France (unfortunately) visited so often, that he pretty much kept a lot of his stuff there for convenience.

As rifled through the Frenchman's clothes, a fun idea popped into America's head. He grabbed one of France's blue and red uniform - complete with a rose and all - and quickly began to change.

_Wait until England sees this,_ America thought, snickering. _This'll be too funny!_

Ever so quietly, America snuck downstairs. When he entered the pose, he stifled a giggle and call softly, "Oh England~"

"What is it?" the Brit replied, not even glancing up from his book. "Check me out, dude! I want your opinion on something."

Sighing, England finally tore his eyes away from the page and looked at America. He froze.

"W-what... why are you... What the bloody hell are you doing wearing that?" England spluttered.

"How do I look~?" the other asked in return, striking a dramatic pose, the rose stem in his mouth.

As England continued to struggle for words, America finally allowed himself to laugh loudly and freely, the rose carelessly landing at his feet. After he finished his laughing fit, he looked at the silent England to see his reaction. To his surprise, he saw that England was... blushing.

"England?" he questioned in confusion.

"What?" England snapped. He looked away then back at America, and his blush only darkened.

"...Why are you blushing?"

"What? I am NOT blushing, you idiot! Why the hell would I blush over you in... France's clothes..." Despite his words, it was clear that the Brit couldn't pull his eyes away from the sight before him. Plus, America caught the way he stammered France's name, and he sure as hell didn't like it either.

"England... What's up? Either I'm really sexy or... You're thinking about France. And dude please tell me you think I'm a sexy beast right now..."

England smiled weakly and said, "Of course I'm not thinking about France, love."

"You told me you were over him already," America accused.

"I am! And I have been for a long time now," England exclaimed indignantly.

America clenched his fists and looked away. "Whatever." And with that, he turned and made his way back up the stairs to rid himself of the French clothes which now felt slimy against his skin.

* * *

**So that was chapter one, and there's really only about 5 more for this fic. It was originally written as a oneshot based off a bunch of rps I did with KagamineRinChan (Alexandria), but it just kept growing longer and longer and longer... Yeah, anyway, the reason I decided to post this here instead of my joint account with Alex is because I decided not to make this an M rated fic. Why? I didn't want to ruin the ending with the smut I had planned. Instead, I'll gonna post that M rated section in a totally different collab with Alex. I know this all sounds kinda confusing, but just read and review and put us on alert, and I promise you'll be fine~ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here is the next chapter, up sooner than planned~ I'm posting it partly because I know the first chapter is short and partly because I just really want to~! **

**This was going to be another super short one, but I decided to give you a long one. Aren't I so nice~? XD**

* * *

_The two blonde nations stood back to back in the thick, almost swirling fog. Despite being used to his country's foggy environment, England's senses were so blocked by it that he did not realize that he wasn't alone until he felt a body press up behind him and a hand run up his side._

_Alfred, he thought immediately, feeling the man's hot breath against the back of his neck. His pulse quickened and he leaned back against the warm body in the cool fog. White ghost-like tendrils of fog drifted around them, as if an evanescent force was trying to bind the two together. He shifted in America's - who felt a bit... smaller than usual - grasp, letting a sigh escape his lips. He hummed in approval as his lover began to trail kisses along his neck._

_As the blonde behind him began to use his mouth in new ways, England found himself feeling... off. Sure the actions were sexy, but something about them made him hesitate._

_"N-No," he murmured quietly as the other man's hands began to trail lower. "Ah, p-please... don't touch me there..."_

_"Why not?" a voice whispered in his ear, and England froze. It wasn't because the tone was husky or dripping with lust; it was because he was certain the voice did not belong to America._

_He lurched forward and turned around wildly, eyes straining to look at the man who had just touched him so intimately._

_"Is there a problem, Angleterre?" the man purred, eyeing England hungrily. France. Out of all people for it to be, it had to be France._

_"Yes, there's a problem! You should not be touching me," England told him sharply._

_France reached out and placed his hand on England's crotch, shocking the other nation and making him jump. "Oh and why not?"_

_"Because I don't want you to," was England's immediate response. "Plus, America wouldn't like it very much. At all really. You know as well as I do that things get bad when he's angry."_

_France grimaced, but then sneered and spat, "So now I suppose you'll just go run along to him crying to him telling big bad France was messing with you. 'Oh America, help me! Be my hero, Alfr-"_

_"Shut up."_

_France glared at him but quieted nonetheless._

_"Don't you dare mock our relationship. And don't you ever mention him."_

_"Why not?" France sounded almost panicked as he asked._

_"Because you two are on such different levels. You're not worthy to say his name," England told him, anger tainting his words in more ways than one._

_The two stared at each other silently, communicating countless messages between two pairs of eyes - the Brit's defensive, almost venemous green orbs and the Frenchman's angry, needy circles of blue._

_Then France turned and walked away. That was the end of that._

* * *

What woke America up was the mumbling. England was having one of the days when he spoke in his sleep. Now while usually Alfred found this to be adorable, what he didn't like was England's restlessness. He kept shifting around, his head tossing back and forth; one minute he was cuddled up to America, the next he was shoving the poor lad away.

America yawned and leaned up to rest his weight on his arm as he looked down to watch his still sleeping lover. A soft smile appeared on his face and he sat up even further in order to gently comb his fingers through England's hair. Such tenderness wasn't exactly rare for America, but it was not common either. Most moments were like this, when England was asleep or at his most vulnerable. Alfred was busy admiring the light flush on Arthur's cheeks when some of the

sleeping man's garbled words finally made sense.

"...n-no... not there..."

Curious, America raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer to listen. Was England having a naughty dream? If so, that would explain the moans. But what confused Alfred was why England's sleepy refusal and ehy he looked so bothered.

"...no..." England groaned ever so softly. "...France..."

America jolted upright and felt something inside of him twist painfully at that. Why was England dreaming about France? Why was he moaning before?

_I fucking knew it_, thought America bitterly. _I KNEW he still loved that French asshole._

"...A-America..."

Alfred's eyes immediately darted towards England, wondering if he had woken up. But no, England's eyes remained firmly shut and his breathing kept at the same pace. America stared at him questioningly.

"...'merica won't... like this..." England finished.

America felt his heart drop. Was his Arthur dreaming of having a secret affair with France? The very thought of it made him sick. Swallowing back the anxiety (or bile and bits of his heart - any of those could be what was rising in the back of his throat right now), he whispered in the best French accent he could muster:

"What about America? Is he better than me?"

Over the next few seconds, America could see England's face darken. He hadn't known it was possible to look that angry while sleeping.

"...don't... mention him..."

By this point Alfred's breathing was becoming more rapid as he himself grew more panicked. Struggling to remain composed, he grasped onto his poor accent and begged, "Why not?"

"...not worthy..." was all that England mumbled before rolling over once more so that his back was facing America.

Shakily, America stood up and made his way into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Then he turned and slammed his fist into the wall, cracking some of the tiles and sending chips falling to the floor. Without bothering to clean the mess, he carelessly jumped in the shower and completed the rest of his morning routine in the bathroom.

By the time he stepped out with a towel slung loosely around his hips, England was sitting up and stretching. The Brit rubbed the sleep (and with it, the remnants of his dream) away from his eyes and stood, mumbling a "good morning" to Alfred before entering the bathroom.

"Yeah... mornin'," America responded to the closed door. He sighed and rummaged through his drawers and choosing a pair of blue boxers, dark baggy jeans, a white t shirt and a blue flannel shirt that he wore open over his white shirt. Ten minutes later, he was tossing the towel into the hamper in the corner of the room just as England walked into the bedroom in his bathrobe. Normally America would try to take advantage of this moment before England got dressed, but today he barely glanced at the British man before stomping down the stairs.

He tossed himself down onto the sofa as soon as he entered the living room. He grabbe the remote control and began to flip the channels absentmindedly, seeing but not watching, hearing but not listening. In fact, he was so lost in thought, that he was caught off guard when the cushions next to him shifted as England sat beside him.

"What are you watching?" England inquired, his voice carefully polite.

America shrugged, staring blankly at the screen.

"Looks like CSI," the Brit suggested.

"Then that's what it is."

America's abrupt response left England at a loss. He wasn't quite sure what to say anymore, so instead he took a chance and leaned against the taller man's side. He knew that America rarely turned down the chance to hug or cuddle.

It was because of this reasoning that he was surprised when he felt the American's body stiffen. He leaned in more, hoping for some sort of response from his unusually tense lover. England could not supress the hurt he felt as he watched Alfred blatantly ignore his attempts to instigate some intimacy. Was he still upset about the incident from the night before?

"I'm gonna get something to eat," America announced, shooting up from his seat. He shook off his discomfort and walked into the kitchen.

Once there, America dug around through the cabinets looking for something to eat. He didn't outwardly acknowledge when England walked in, instead choosing to bury his head in the refrigerator in search of breakfast.

England cleared his throat awkwardly and brought out a kettle. He filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil then leaned back against the counter. Here he made another attempt at conversation. "Did you sleep well, America?"

America shrugged and mumbled under his breath, "I bet you did though." He shut the fridge door and decided to go with a box of poptarts instead. He grabbed it off the counter and sat down at the table with the whole box, not feeling patient enough to actually put them in the toaster this morning. He ripped open one of the packages and began to eat.

"Are you okay?" England asked hesitantly. He was staring at the American's obviously tense figure with an expression of worry on his face.

"I'm fine," America lied, already swallowing down his second pair of poptarts.

"You sure?"

America nodded, his mouth full. He finished off the rest of the box as England prepared his own cup of tea. Arthur had just sat down at the table with his teacup when America sat up and asked, "Have you seen my camera?"

England blinked. "I believe I saw it on the coffee table earlier. Why?"

"I want to test out some new angles," America told him, swiftly walking into the living room and swiping up his camera. He made his way towards the glass doors that led to the backyard. "I'll be out back," was all he said before leaving England to finish his tea alone.

Once outside America wandered around, taking a photo here and there of the scenery around him. England knew of his hobby and since he supported his love of photography, America knew that he would be able to stay out here peacefully under the pretext of his photography.

Pausing in the middle of trying to find good lighting, America glanced towards the house. His house- no, /their/ house. He stared for a moment before something caught his eye and he took a picture of it. He then lowered his camera to admire the photo he had just taken.

The image was focused on the kitchen window, through which one could clearly see the subject of the photo. It was a profile of Arthur who was sitting at the small table, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him and giving the appearance of a golden aura around him. The sight of it made Alfred smile.

He sighed. Maybe he was overreacting. Either way, he just couldn't bring himself to be angry for too long; he just loved Arthur too much. The only problem was: did he feel the same?

America sighed again and went back inside, only to find England up on his feet and pacing the living room. "Going somewhere?" he asked. Probably France's place.

England looked up, startled. "N-no. Are you?"

"No," America replied. He carefully set his camera back into its case.

"Ah, good, I mean, well," England began nervously. He froze when America glanced up questioningly, because he just wasn't quite sure how to act around America this morning. Still, he cleared his throat and forced himself to continue, "I was hoping that we could spend the day together."

America immediately smiled. Watching England blush and stutter as he asked to spend the day together just made him grin and his heart warm with that familiar feeling of love and affection. "Alright," he agreed. "What do you want to do?"

England smiled at him. "Well then... how about we relax here at home for a bit, then we can go for a walk later?"

"Sounds good," America said, settling down on the couch and turning on the tv. He gestured at England, who willingly complied and curled up next to his lover on the sofa. America smiled and wrapped his arm around him tightly. Suddenly the incident from that morning seemed petty and the one from yesterday even sillier still.

America looked down at the Brit in his arms, head resting on his chest. He was just so beautiful. Then Arthur looked up and met his gaze and Alfred felt his chest tighten as he became absorbed by those entrancing green orbs.

"America," England began, his voice soft and tentative.

"Yeah?" America answered with a reassuring smile.

England took a deep breath. "I... I just wanted to tell you-"

**RING RING**

America cursed under his breath as England immediately pulled away and informed him that it wasn't his phone, so it must be Alfred's.

"Do I really have to answer it?" whined America as the obnoxious ring continued.

England nodded stiffly in response, if somewhat reluctantly.

America sighed and pulled out his phone. He opened it without checking the caller ID and said into the phone, "Yo, what's up?"

"Privyet, America!"

"Russia?" America glanced over at England and grimaced before continuing. "What do you want, dude?"

"I was thinking that we could do some of that hanging out as you Americans call it."

"I don't think so. I kinda already have plans for the day."

"Come on! It is important discussion and we can get drinks too," Russia insisted.

America sighed and mumbled, "Alright, where do you want to meet?"

"WHAT?" England exclaimed, shooting up from his seat in outrage. America cringed and gave him a pleading look.

"Well, how about your house?" Russia suggested.

"That's not a good idea. I have company over. How about that bar a few blocks away from the theater?"

"Company? Ah, so that must have been what I heard. Da, I'll meet you there," Russia chirped.

"Right," America mumbled before hanging up. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to face England's wrath.

He was met with a fierce glare that exceeded his expectations.

"You bloody tosser."

"England, I-"

"Did you already forget that you agreed to spend the day with me?"

"No, I didn't forget, of course not, but-"

"But what?" England continued to rage. "You just decided it was better worth your time to go hang out with someone else. And not just anyone else, but RUSSIA."

"Oh come on, England, you know we're just frie- acquaintances actually. If that," America struggled to explain. He wanted to say more, but England cut him off once more.

"Oh please, don't think I've forgotten about your past with him," the Brit spat. "I'm your boyfriend, America, spending time with me should be more important!"

America sighed and reached for England. Even though he tried to shrug him away, America persisted and succeeded in wrapping his arms firmly around his lover's waist. "Listen to me," he demanded softly.

England huffed and looked at him with an angry impatient look.

"I'm only going to be gone for a little while. I'll see what he wants and come back here so we can spend the evening together. How does that sound?"

"What if it's not that simple? That damn git probably won't let you go so soon," England argued.

"Well then I'll just get the bastard drunk and leave his ass at the bar! After all, he can't say no to vodka~" America told England with a wink.

England sighed. "Fine. Just get your arse home by 4."

"Deal!"

* * *

**So that's it for now~ Gah, I actually really like this story so much when, which is kinda odd for me.**** I'd really love to know what YOU all think though. So please please pleeease review?**

**Oh and since I made this chapter longer by combining it with the next one, there's only like... 2 or 3 left? Yeah. Apparently I'm not too good at writing long stories. Oh well!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

**11:47 p.m.**

"Am I a democrat or a republican? Ahahaha, I don't even know!"

Russia chuckled heartily and patted the American on the back before taking another swig of vodka straight from the bottle. It came from his own personal stash hidden somewhere inside his coat.

America's bleary eyes glanced at the clock, although it took him nearly a minute to register the time.

"It's late! That's bad," he slurred. Then he squinted in confusion, as if trying to remember something. "I just dunno why 's bad..."

"Oh, is that so?" Russia said, smiling disinterestedly.

"Somethin' 'bout England, I think..." Alfred mumbled.

"Oh, do not worry about that!" Russia said quickly. "You see, you're coming to my house now, that way England will not worry about you being out with strangers. Makes sense, da?"

America nodded. His head was too fuzzy to really sort out details.

"Good," Russia said, sliding off of his barstool and smiling as he led the drunk blonde away.

An hour later, Alfred found himself walking into an unfamiliar house behind Ivan. He had never been in the man's home before, and right now he was too under the influence to properly take in the details around him. All he could sense was the smell of vodka that permeated the room. Or perhaps he had simply had too much alcohol to drink.

He wasn't until he felt himself being tossed onto cool sheets on a firm mattress that he realized he was in the Russian's bedroom. It took his inebriated mind a minute to process this bit of information, and even then it was choppy at best. America - England + Russia + bedroom = ...?

He blinked and his lips felt cold. It took him a moment to realize that the coolness was Ivan's lips pressed firmly against his mouth; it took another, longer moment to realize that his own lips were moving against the Russian's roughly. He was kissing back.

The kiss was harsh and cold, friction without heat, passion without warmth. It was a struggle for an unknown prize. Actually, there was a prize, but America wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet. He was quickly losing himself into the kiss, forgetting all his troubles. Who cared about the economy? So what if his boyfriend loved his ex? He didn't need-

England. Suddenly America's mind was filled with images of the British man. Smiling, scowling, laughing, crying. Oh gosh, who knew which of those England was doing right now; while Arthur was waiting for America who was hours late, here he was making out with Russia.

America's eyes snapped open at the sound of a zipper being yanked down. He brought his arms up and shoved Russia away. Then without thinking, he pulled his arm back and let it fly forward, punching Russia square in the nose. He stumbled off the bed and almost made it to the door, but he was yanked back and slammed against the wall.

Russia was a menacing sight to behold. His eyes were dark and the aura around more frightful than ever. A crimson trail of blood trickled down from his nose, but he paid it no mind. Instead his eyes were locked on his prey before him.

"You are very lucky, America," he hissed, his eyes glinting dangerously. He wrapped his fingers around the blonde's throat. "I could kill you right here and now, but I won't. So that makes you a very lucky one, indeed."

America glared back, hiding his fear behind bravery. His voice was calm when he spoke. "Why won't you kill me, or even hit me? After all, I just punched you in the face."

To his surprise, Russia chuckled. But it was low and without any real humor. He watched as Russia leaned in closer and whispered, "Because you are the only one who has ever made me feel like this."

Before America could even process those words, he was thrown outside, the door slamming and locking behind him. More disoriented than ever, America stood, brushed off his pants, and began to find his way home.

* * *

It was nearing 4 in the morning when America finally reached his home, although he didn't know this. In fact, he did not know much of anything besides the fact that he just wanted to crawl into his warm bed, curl up next to Arthur, and sleep until well past noon. Or until the pounding in his head eased. Whichever came first.

He fumbled with his keys before finally succeeding in unlocking the door and all but fell headfirst through the doorway, somehow managing to kick the door shut behind him.

The sudden brightness of the room startled him. He blinked against the harsh glow of the lamp. Squinting, he recognized the outline of a person sitting in the large armchair facing the door.

"E-England?"

The nation was glaring fiercely at him from his seat. His dark green eyes were tinged with red around the edges and his hair was even messier than usual. His normally crisp and clean clothes were wrinkled and in a state of disarray.

"When I told you to be home by four, I did not mean four in the morning."

His voice was cool, droll almost. But there was an underlying tension just beneath the surface of his words. It was a trembling anger, somehow being restrained into a semblance of courtesy.

"I'm sorry, I lost track of time and I-"

"How the bloody hell did you lose track of 12 hours of time?" England boomed. He stood and began to pace in front of America, visibly shaking from the effort it took to keep his emotions under control. His outburst was proof that he wasn't doing a very good job at it.

"You told me it'd be quick. You said you'd be back early. Apparently spending the evening with your boyfriend isn't good enough for you! You obviously thought spending time with /Russia/ was more worthwhile," spat England.

"Just let me explain!" America cried, stepping forward and grabbing England's arm to stop his frenzied movements. When the Brit met his gaze (albeit rather spitefully), he continued.

"We went to a bar and I meant to get him drunk so I could sneak away and let the bastard to take care of himself, but he can really hold his vodka... And I kinda ended up getting drunk instead. It all just went downhill from there."

England studied America's face carefully, searching for lies or secrets or both. Eyes never straying from his face, he asked, "What exactly do you mean by downhill?"

Here America got nervous. Sure, he had been under the influence for the most part, but he could still remember all too clearly what happened, what he had done. He licked his lips. Alfred wondered how much of the truth he could leave out and still get away with it.

"Well you see, he, um, brought me over to his place-"

"He did WHAT?" England shouted. The Brit shoved the other blonde away and stared at him in horror and disgust. "Bloody hell, what did you two do?"

"No, no, it's not like that," America hurried to explain. He held his arms out and said, "Look. I'm being honest here. Russia and I did not have sex."

Green eyes quickly scanned over his figure fearfully. Then they stopped and widened. America looked down to see whatever it was that England saw.

His fly was still down.

"Shit!" America muttered frantically, rushing to zip up his pants. "It's not what it looks like!"

"Really now? Even now you have the audacity to lie to me?" England shrieked. "How dare you! I stayed up throughout the night waiting for you and you were of doing who knows what with that damn Russian!"

"England, let me explain," America's voiced cracked halfway through his sentence as he watched England's shoulders heave with his barely constrained sobs. America reached out for him, but England only brushed past him.

"Where are you going?" America asked, watching England collect his coat, wallet, and keys. The Brit turned to face him, green eyes wet and venomous.

"Out."

"Out where?" he persisted.

England laughed incredulously, almost mockingly; it was so harsh and bitter that it made America wince. "Do you really think you have the right to ask me that after what you just did?"

America lowered his head and said nothing.

England snorted. "I didn't think so. Don't wait up for me." He opened the door, but paused right before he left. He turned and said lowly over his shoulder, "Actually, do wait for me. That way you'll understand what I had to endure the past 12 hours."

Then he walked out the door, shutting it resolutely behind him.

* * *

**So there you have it! What do you all think? I'd very much love it if you let me know in a review; honestly, there's way less reviews than there are people reading it (thank you to those of you that did review~). It makes me wonder what's going on in the minds of the rest of you o.o Do you like it? Dislike? etc... ANYWAY, please please please review! This fic means a lot to me, and I would love to know what you think of it, too~**

**Okay, my little mini-rant/beg is over! XD**


	4. Chapter 4

**So yeah, here's the next chapter! Let's see what an angry England does after he stormed off in the last chapter! o.o**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

France stared up at the sign of the building in front of him.

_The Green Man's Bottle_

While normally he would just walk on past the establishment, the pub looked like a place his darling England would visit. France sighed. England wasn't his darling anymore and hadn't been for a while.

Still, it was the connection his mind made between the pub and England that kept him standing there. The place was still open (he could tell from the stray figures moving inside the building), although it was just about ready to close. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was 5a.m. and indeed, the pub's closing time.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why he was even out at this time himself. He didn't let this question wander any further, for he already knew the answer. He was having trouble sleeping again; he'd been having a lot more sleepless nights (and not the kinky kind) ever since-

France shook his head and forced himself to turn away from The Green Man's Bottle. He had barely taken two steps when loud voices made him turn back around.

"Out with ya!"

"You can't kick me out! Do you know who I bloody am?"

That voice. France's eyes widened and sure enough locked onto the familiar figure thrown on the ground in front of him. England. He inhaled, but his breath caught in his throat.

"I don't care. Just get your sorry ass out of here!" the pub owner told the drunk blonde, shooting him a dirty look.

England bristled with anger. He picked himself up off the ground and slurred, "I'll have you know that I'm the United bl-"

"There you are, Arthur!" Francis exclaimed, rushing forward to grab the Brit before he said something stupid.

Arthur stared at Francis blankly and blinked. "Francis? Is that you?" he croaked. His voice was hoarse from hours of drinking and yelling.

"Hey, you know this bloke?" the pub owner asked Francis. "If so, get him away from my pub."

"Of course, sir," the Frenchman said with an apologetic smile. "My friend and I will leave now." He ignored the pang in his chest as he forced out the word friend the same way he ignored the jolt he got from hearing Arthur say his name.

France began to drag England away, ignoring the garbled complaints coming from the intoxicated nation. He took him straight to the hotel he was staying at for the meetings in America this month. It was difficult to quietly get him into the building, in the elevator, and eventually into the room, especially considering England's struggling the entire way.

"Where are we going, damn it..." the Brit muttered once more as France locked the door behind them.

"My room. And we're already here," Francis stated matter of factly. He let Arthur flop onto the bed, while he himself took a seat across from him.

"So, Angleterre, what were you doing drinking at this time?" he asked with more than a little concern. He knew that England usually only got himself hammered when he was depressed.

England's already glassy eyes shimmered with tears and he stared out the window. There was a heavy pause, in which neither man felt uncomfortable. Then he parted his lips and spoke. "I got into a fight with America."

Francis studied him for a moment. "Must've been one hell of a fight," he declared after his examination.

England sighed roughly before recounting a long description of America's stunt of the night before. He didn't make any sense in some parts, and he would often go off into rants mid-sentence. The tears remained welled up in his eyes the whole time, just waiting for the right moment to spill over.

When he was sure the Brit was done for the most part, Francis sighed and said, "Maybe it was a misunderstanding, Angleterre."

"Missunderanding my arse!" England bit out, stunbling over the word that was too long for his intoxicated self. He continued anyway. "I practically threw myself at him in the morning and he rejected me!"

"I'm sure that wasn't it-"

"And then he left me to go fuck Russia!"

"Are you certain that they slept together?"

"Well, he claims he didn't, but his fly was open when he got home," England said sourly.

"Do you really trust him that little?" asked France in a gentle tone.

"Well," England began, and then he faltered. "I guess not... but he was gone for so long and he..."

"Perhaps you should've listened to his side of the story," the Frenchman suggested.

England groaned. "I want to believe him," he said. "I just- He... It's so easy for him to hurt me..."

France stared at England's slumped figured and swallowed uncomfortably. He looked so vulnerable, which was rare for the proud British gentleman. It just didn't look right to see him so obviously weak and hurting.

And it was all because of America.

_Isn't it always?_ he thought bitterly before pushing the thought away. England didn't need any negativity; he needed support, and as much as it pained him to admit - America's love.

"As the country of l'amour, I think I know a thing or two about love, and trust me when I tell you that that man loves you more than anything. The last thing he would do is purposely hurt you."

England remained silent for several long minutes. Finally, he whispered, "I know."

"Then talk to him. Hear Amerique's side of the story - the full one. Then you can decide whatever you want to do. But just keep in mind that he loves you beyond belief... and that you love him too," France said lowly. His chest hurt and his eyes burned, but he knew he said what he needed to say.

"Right," England mumbled. Silence reigned for the next few minutes.

"Angleterre?" Francis called softly. There was no response.

Carefully, he lifted himself from his seat and tiptoed over to the blonde on the hotel's bed. England was sleeping. Smiling tenderly at the man, Francis pulled the covers up around him and pressed a feather light kiss to his forehead.

"Goodnight, Arthur."

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**Aww, isn't France so nice? T-T Haha, anyway, don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think!**

**Now, there's something different I would like to bring up to you all. As many of you may know, there have been M stories here on FF being deleted due to smut or excessive violence. This has people here in an uproar and I for one am part of those petitioning for a separate MA rating so as to avoid a purging of stories like this. If you would like to know more about this, please go to the profile of Psudocode_Samurai. There you will see the petition and if you agree with it, pm that person and your name will be added to the list. ****Thanks for your time and support, everyone! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, here it is. The final chapter o.o I hope you like it. **

**I don't own Hetalia!**

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It was a more reasonable time when England got home. Three in afternoon, to be precise. Just around tea time. Oh and goodness, did he need a cup of tea right about now.

His entrance was quiet, just a silent open and shut of the front door. He made his way towards the stairs without being stopped, but it was a low snore from the living room that made him halt of his own accord.

He entered the living only to find what seemed to be an empty room. The tv was off and America was not in sight. He took a few steps farther into the room and leaned onto the back of the sofa. Peering down, he found the source of the soft snores that filled the room. America was curled up on the sofa asleep, precariously close to the edge.

In the softest tone he could manage, England whispered, "America, I'm home."

To his immediate surprise, America's body jerked as he awoke instantly, and the man ended up on the floor with a loud thud that shook the furniture. He stared up at England with wide, red-rimmed eyes that were puffy from a night so obviously spent crying. The fall sounded like it hurt but he showed no sign of caring. He didn't seem to care about anything at all, but before he knew it, England found himself trapped in America's arms as the other man hugged him tightly.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," was repeated over and over into his ear.

After a minute of this, America seemed to realize that although the stubborn love of his life had yet to push him away, he was not returning the hug either. He pulled back just enough to look into England's sad green eyes. He opened his mouth, but realized he had no other words besides his apologies. Instead he closed his mouth, watching intensely and waiting for Arthur to say something.

"Do you know where I was last night, America?" England began, his lips moving slowly, almost sluggishly as he said the words. He paused but when Alfred didn't hazard a guess, he provided the answer himself. "I was at France's hotel room. Do you know what we did?"

America's body stiffened and his eyes shined again, this time with anger and jealousy thrown in along with the despair and longing. He dropped his arms completely, teeth gritted and hands clenched into tight fists. He looked down as he spoke. "What?" He didn't think he could say any more without shaking.

"Absolutely nothing."

It was amazing really, how quickly the tension left America's body as his head snapped back up to stare at England. "R-really?" he asked in hopeful disbelief.

England nodded and continued to speak in a dull tone. "All I did was cry over you all night and France consoled me. He said I should listen to your side of the story."

America nodded rapidly, tripping over his words in his haste as he agreed.

England then disentangled himself from the other man before settling into the corner of the sofa, Alfred immediately taking the seat beside him, and nodded for him to begin.

America quickly launched into an account of his ordeal with Russia, reluctant to give certain details but being totally honest nonetheless. He gestured and grimaced and went up in pitch a few times during his tale, as he was wont to do when avidly storytelling. England listened with a stoic expression, carefully keeping a tight reign on his wild emotions. Still, even he couldn't help but cringe when he heard that his boyfriend kissed the Russian man. America made up for it though, when he told him all about how he punched Russia in the face.

"It was scary as hell, especially when he got seriously pissed, but I just kept thinkig of you! I would get into a fight with him, or ANYONE, if I was doing it for you," America insisted sincerely.

England allowed himself a small, wry smile. "Really?" he asked.

America nodded. "Yes, Arthur, really!"

"Why?" England already knew the answer, but he had to hear it. Just hearing it after all that would make everything better.

Without missing a beat, Alfred told him, "Because I love you, Arthur. Only you, always."

Being the incredibly proud, terribly stubborn nation that he is, England could have turned away, fuming and raging for a few more days. He could have held a grudge against America for what he did. But he was tired and hurting and the romantic he was at heart was just longing for the feeling of being held by America once more. It was a thought that pounded through his mind with each beat of his heavy heart, and he gave in to it.

"I love you too, America," England replied, finally smiling his beautifully rare smile. It was the one Alfred had been dying to see the past two days.

America grinned at him and pulled him close, feeling joy, relief, and love. He promised himself in that instance to try to always keep that look on England's face; he should never give his British love a reason to cry, especially not when he shone so radiantly when he smiled.

As they cuddled and stole kisses on the couch, he slowly came to realize something.

"Hey, Arthur," he began slowly. "Tell me you love me."

England complied. "I love you. Isn't that clear by now, America?"

"Of course," America replied, pressing a kiss to England's willing lips. He mumbled, "I was just wondering why you don't call me Alfred."

England blinked. "Oh. Is that all?" He chuckled.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I call you Arthur, but you never call me by my human name even though we're so close."

"In that case," Arthur said, turning to face the other blond fully. He smiled and locked their eyes as he murmured, "I love you, Alfred. My Alfred F. Jones."

Alfred laughed and wrapped his arms around Arthur. His Arthur Kirkland.

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** Well, there you have it, folks! I admit, I felt a bit unsure about ending it there because it seemed so soon, but oh well, I suppose... **

**Oh and I want to let you people know that I am planning a prequel to this~ It'll be about France and England's relationship and how England got together with America. It's gonna be called The Blue Eyed Thief. I haven't started writing it yet, but please keep an eye out for it, alright~? Oh and who knows, maybe if I really like this whole thing, I'll write a sequel to this, too! It's still way too early to say for sure, but hey, you never know.**

**As always, please leave me a review to let me know what you thought of the story~! :D Thanks, everybody!**


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